Stranger (37 page)

“Think we’re not the most well-liked people in the Night Forest,” she murmured as they passed a pack of growling demon dogs.

“Not here to nurture friendships,” Catullus answered. He carried the box under one arm and had his shotgun ready in the other.

“You seem popular with the females, though,” she pointed out.

He made a noise of disgust. “I don’t want to be anyone’s plaything … or meal. Besides,” he added, “it’s
you
I love, so the matter is closed.”

There it was—that happy leap her heart gave when he said such things to her. She doubted she’d grow used to hearing him say that he loved her. Even in this damned dark forest, she couldn’t stop herself from smiling. What the future held, no one knew, but for now, she had this, she had him, and she told herself it was enough.

“I think I see Bryn up ahead,” she said.

The edge of the Night Forest grew nearer, the boundary between light and darkness still sharply delineated. Only when Gemma and Catullus crossed over into the dusky light did she allow herself to sigh with relief. Her eyes ached as they adjusted to the brightness.

Bryn hopped down from a nearby branch, clearly surprised.
“I never thought to see you alive,” he piped. “Did you get the water from Mab’s Cauldron?” “We did,” said Catullus.

Bryn danced in the air, gleeful. “You’ve done it! The Man in the Oak tested you, and you prevailed! ‘Tis marvelous!”

Catullus wrapped an arm around Gemma’s shoulder, and she clasped his waist, both grinning at the jigging pixie. It
was
marvelous. They’d faced some of the most dangerous, horrible creatures ever known, and solved the riddle of Mab’s Cauldron. The experience had been awful and terrible and thrilling. Not only did she and Catullus survive, but they had succeeded in their quest.

“Even got Mab’s protection for the journey back,” Gemma said.

Hefting the box, Catullus said, “Have it here.”

Bryn reared back. “’Tis iron! Keep it away from me!”

Catullus shifted the box away. “Apologies, Bryn.”

The mood of triumph evaporated. Gemma realized that their quest wasn’t over, only that they had accomplished only one small part of it.

Catullus must have realized the same thing. All levity gone, he said, “You must take us back to Merlin, at once.” He glanced at the box. “We’ve but one chance to free the sorcerer.”

“Will you truly free him?” the pixie asked anxiously. “Though he spoke sensibly, he is still quite out of his senses.”

“In or out of his senses,” Catullus said, grim, “he is our sole hope for survival.”

The pixie gulped, but nodded. He fluttered away, marking the path for Gemma and Catullus’s journey back to the mad sorcerer. There was still a long way to go.

Merlin remained as he had been for untold centuries, partially entombed within the oak tree. As Catullus, Gemma, and Bryn entered the clearing, the sorcerer was amusing himself by conjuring phantasms in the air. Figures of light and shadow danced to curious, hectic music, whirling together in dizzying reels.

Watching the shadow play, Catullus wondered if the figures reflected the spinning mind of the sorcerer. Hopefully, Merlin retained enough sense to remember who Catullus and Gemma were and on what errand the sorcerer had sent them.

Catullus and Gemma neared, with Bryn cautiously following. The sorcerer paid them no notice, absorbed in the spectacle dancing before him. Fascinating as it was, there wasn’t time to indulge in amusements, and Catullus reluctantly cleared his throat to gain Merlin’s attention.

“I know you are there, mortal.” The sorcerer kept his eyes focused on the swirl of color and movement. “This must play out.”

Catullus could not stifle his impatience. “But we haven’t any time—”

Merlin’s gaze darted to and from Catullus. In a distracted voice, he said, “And that is all I have. Time. An abundance of it. My mind is crowded with time.”

The metal box in Catullus’s hands, and its precious contents, could vanish at any moment. “We brought what you have asked for: water from Mab’s Cauldron.”

“We can set you free,” added Gemma, hopeful.

“Free,” Merlin repeated. He barked words in an ancient tongue, and the phantasms blew away like leaves. “The sun is free, and who shall reap his grain?”

A wary glance passed between Catullus and Gemma. They both wondered the same thing—if they
could
free Merlin, would the madman be of any use?

“Tell us what to do with the water,” Catullus prompted.

Merlin shifted, and the trunk of the tree moved with him as though its bark were a long robe. The sorcerer bent at the waist, partially disengaging himself from the trunk and placed his hand in the earth at the base of the oak. Though the soil was firm, when Merlin rose up again, his hand left a distinct impression within it.

“Pour the water into that,” the sorcerer directed.

From the metal box, Catullus removed the fabric. Thank God—or Mab—none of the water had evaporated. The box vanished the moment he took the fabric from it.

“Guess there’s no going back,” Gemma murmured.

Catullus knew they had the one chance to get this right. Crouching down next to the handprint, he grasped the wet muslin and wrung it out carefully.

“Clever.” Merlin chuckled. “I believed the only way to take water from Mab’s Cauldron was to use magic.”

“I used the magic of converting liquid to its vapor state through the application of heat.” Blades could not use magic that wasn’t theirs by right or gift, and none of his family nor ancestors possessed any magic. In the course of his work with the Blades, Catullus had witnessed and felt the power of magic, but never wielded it. The scientist in
Catullus longed to experience it, even if only once. Sadly, he’d never been gifted with any magical power, and so could only speculate.

He focused now on the power he
did
command: the laws of science. Droplets of water dribbled from the fabric. It wasn’t much, but Catullus hoped it would be enough. He watched, and scarcely believed what he saw. Once again, his notions of science dissolved in the logic-defying principles of Otherworld.

The water did not absorb immediately into the earth. Nor did it fill the hand-shaped imprint. Instead, the water beaded and moved like liquid metal, forming itself into a circle in the middle of Merlin’s handprint. Spokes bisected the circle. The water solidified, turning not into ice, but silver.

“Take it,” said Merlin.

Gingerly, Catullus picked up the tiny wheel. It exuded subtle warmth in the center of his palm. Peering closely, he saw that it appeared to be entirely solid, the metal an unbroken ring. He held it up between his fingers and it gleamed in the sunlight.

Gemma cautiously touched the circle and smiled faintly at the marvel of it. “Wonderful enchantment.”

“It is the Wheel,” said Merlin, solemn. “The Round Table. The circular World.” He fixed Catullus with this fathomless gaze. “The Compass.”

Catullus’s hand unconsciously drifted to the pocket that held his Compass. No surprise that this essential symbol of the Blades meant so much. And it could not astonish Catullus that Merlin knew not only about the Blades of the Rose, but also about their use of the Compass as their symbol and unifying principle. Energy prickled along the back of Catullus’s neck as he truly began to fathom the breadth of the sorcerer’s power and knowledge.

“The circularity of Magic,” Merlin continued. “No beginning, no end. Hold it sacred and safe, for the bearer of
the Silver Wheel shall have the means to speak to and be heard by Arthur.”

The wheel suddenly felt much heavier and more precious. “Meaning, that
we
are the ones who will communicate with Arthur and break his connection to the Heirs.”

Gemma glanced back and forth between the silver wheel and Merlin. “Can’t this free you from your prison? Wasn’t that the reason we went into the Night Forest?”

“My liberation was never the purpose. The Wheel has not that power.”

“We can’t just leave you here,” she objected.

“’Tis not your quest to undertake. Now your object is to reach Arthur before he reaches the Primal Source.”

Catullus slipped the wheel into an inside pocket in his coat. The wheel’s warmth radiated like a second heart. “On behalf of the Blades, I thank you. I am only sorry that we cannot help you.”

“Presumptuous mortal,” scoffed Merlin. “To assume I need or want your aid.”

“I meant no insult.” Negotiating the sorcerer’s unbalanced mind proved a constant challenge.

Quick as lightning, Merlin’s temper shifted again. Deep wrinkles of humor fanned at the corners of his eyes as he looked Catullus and Gemma up and down. “Fine knightly heroes you make in your tattered garb. In Camelot, you would’ve been sent straight to the kitchens. Or stables. No,” he tutted, shaking his head, “this shall not do.”

The sorcerer sang out a quick spell. The words left his mouth in a cloud of bright moths, fluttering around and then alighting upon Catullus and Gemma.

“Hey!” She tried to shoo the moths away. “They’re
eating
my clothes.”

“No great loss,” Merlin chuckled.

The moths were, in fact, devouring both Catullus and Gemma’s garments, faster than any moth in the ordinary world might. The insects ate everything. From Catullus’s
heavy coat to Gemma’s drawers, nothing was safe. Not even their boots. The moths nibbled through the leather. The sensation was peculiar—not painful, more like an aggressive tickling.

As the moths moved over her, Gemma giggled, then scowled in consternation. Catullus, too, was forced to keep his mouth pressed tight to prevent a very unmanly giggle from escaping.

Within a minute, both mortals found themselves entirely naked. All the contents of Catullus’s countless pockets had mysteriously vanished, including the wheel. His firearms also disappeared. At the least, the greedy insects hadn’t chewed off his spectacles. But the wheel was most important.

Her arms crossed over her breasts, Gemma muttered, “I’m
not
ambling all over creation naked as a cat.”

Much as Catullus loved to see her nude, he had to agree. “Can’t fight very well without a scrap to cover oneself. And where are the wheel and my Compass?” Of all his material possessions, they were the most precious.

“The impatience of mortals,” sighed Merlin. “Bide a moment.”

Catullus again fought the urge to giggle as the moths fluttered over his body. He bit back a startled gasp as the insects worked the garment-devouring process
in reverse.
From their tiny mouths, scraps of fabric appeared on his body, as well as leather around his feet. More and more, until he and Gemma were both fully dressed.

Not with their original clothing. Nor in current fashion.

“Now you are truly worthy of your quest,” said Merlin with approval as the moths flitted away.

Both Catullus and Gemma gaped at their new clothes. “We’re straight out of a tapestry,” she breathed.

Merlin had dressed them in garments from the pages of a courtly medieval ballad. Catullus wore a knight’s white tunic and leggings, with soft leather boots laced to the knee.
Over this, he wore a blue sleeveless surcoat embellished by a silver embroidered Compass—an apt standard. In true chivalric fashion, a silver belt was slung around Catullus’s hips, and heavy gauntlets protected his hands. The boy within Catullus delighted: He was a knight! Exactly as he’d dreamt of being so many years ago.

And Gemma was his lady. “Always knew you’d look stunning in green and gold,” he said, husky.

She colored with pleasure at his compliment, and gave a spin to show off her new clothing. Merlin’s magic had provided her with a dress worthy of a pre-Raphaelite faerie queen: a long gown of emerald silk, with long, trailing sleeves and a wide neckline that almost bared her shoulders. Intricate golden embroidery adorned the sleeves, neck, and hem, and a golden belt embellished with cabochon emeralds encircled her hips. As she spun, she revealed a tissue-thin underskirt of gold, and dainty slippers.

Catullus’s eyes and heart filled near to bursting with the sight of her, so impossibly lovely, a vision of femininity worth any price. He didn’t care what Gemma wore—he loved her regardless—but to see her in what could truly be described as raiment, it almost brought him to his knees.

“I never wanted to be a princess,” she said, smoothing a hand along the embroidery at her neck, “but I might change my mind if I could dress like this every day. And you.” She stepped nearer and, eyes glowing, stroked his chest. “Doubt any princess had so gorgeous a champion.”

“For my lady, anything.” His words were the forged steel of his vow. Turning to Merlin, he said, “Your gifts are generous, but I must have the silver wheel and my Compass.”

“And I’d like my derringer back,” Gemma added.

The sorcerer nodded toward them, and a satchel of soft hide appeared on Catullus’s shoulder. Opening the bag, Catullus found that it held not only the wheel and his Compass, but his tools, the flask, his pocket watch, knife, and every one of the dozens of items he’d stowed in the pockets
of his Ulster overcoat. Yet the satchel was surprisingly light, hardly hinting at the vast number of things Catullus had been carrying.

Catullus’s shotgun appeared on his other shoulder, and he breathed a little easier. It might spoil the overall effect of a romantic knight, but he’d rather be prepared and anachronistic than authentic and ill-equipped.

As for Gemma, a small damask purse materialized on her belt. She grinned as she pulled out her pistol and checked to see if it was loaded. It was. “This princess won’t be captured by any dragon. Not without a fight.” Something else in her purse made her smile: her notebook. She held up the writing pad. “I can serve as scribe, too.”

Catullus realized they hadn’t discussed her writing in a long while. If they survived the upcoming battle, would she tell the world about the Heirs, the Blades, and Sources? To do so would compromise everyone’s safety.

He cleared the thought from his mind. Too much lay between now and that distant future. Survival could not be relied upon. Better to face the impending battle with one objective: victory.

Though Catullus and Gemma were satisfied with their weapons, Merlin was not. He glowered at the shotgun and pistol. “Ill-fitting armaments for magic’s champions.” He mumbled words in a guttural tongue.

Warm metal materialized in Catullus’s right hand. He stared as light took shape, forming, solidifying. A sword. Not an officer’s sword—as he’d seen on numerous soldiers and Samuel Reed’s mantle—but a knight’s double-edged sword. It fit perfectly in his hand, balanced flawlessly, and he stepped back to give an experimental swing. Part of his training regimen included swordplay, but never in his life had he held such a wonder, moving as a natural extension of his arm.

Any doubts as to whether the sword was meant for him vanished when he saw the Compass motif wrought in its
pommel, as well as the embossed gears adorning the leather scabbard on his belt. Catullus glanced at Merlin, and the sorcerer’s eyes glittered at his own metallurgical wit.

“The lady shall not go defenseless,” Merlin said. He stared at Gemma’s right hand, and a dagger took shape within her grasp. Like Catullus’s sword, the dagger was a marvel of craftsmanship as it gleamed in the sunlight.

“Pretty little thing,” Gemma murmured, approving. She tested the edge of the blade with her thumb before hefting it with purpose. She held the knife out for Catullus’s inspection. “It has a writer’s quill worked into the grip.”

“The pen and the sword,” murmured Catullus, “mighty together.”

“Are these weapons magic?” Gemma asked Merlin. “No magic but the skill of who wields them,” came the answer.

After a last flourish, Catullus sheathed his sword. He made sure the silver wheel was secure within the satchel. “The task ahead of us is a great one, and you have dressed and armed us as the heroes we hope to be.”

“As the heroes you
must
be.” Merlin stared hard at them both. “Arthur advances on London, and you must stop him.” His eyes began to cloud, losing sharpness.

Catullus knew they hadn’t much time before Merlin was mired once more in madness. He bowed respectfully to the sorcerer. “The world’s magic owes you a debt, Merlin.”

“Debt? There are no debts,” the sorcerer answered, distracted. “Not when the walls collapse and the flame is loosed. The moon in the water. The metal heart is forged.”

Gemma and Catullus shared a look. Already Merlin was slipping away into the labyrinth of his insanity. They began to back away, with an anxious Bryn hovering behind them. Making their way backward through the clearing, Catullus observed the sorcerer alternating between mumbling and shouts.

Yet Merlin was anything but a sad, mad man. He contained so much power, it was a wonder the whole of the
Otherworld forest wasn’t ablaze. Catullus thought perhaps keeping Merlin contained within the oak was the wiser choice. Power such as the sorcerer possessed could level the world if unchecked.